


the unmentionable vessel

by Eyesore



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Filth, Gut-Fucking, M/M, Menses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 05:52:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10803060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eyesore/pseuds/Eyesore
Summary: A scenario where Blake doesn't get out of that heretic blockade.





	the unmentionable vessel

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to Red Barrels for making the wait worth it.

Everything is red. Logically, Blake would know that it's not raining blood. Blood does not rain from the sky. It's minerals picked up from the nearby hills. It's algae spores, or it's rust from an explosion somewhere, swirled up into the sky and hanging there until it comes pouring down. But in a delirious state, it's blood. Blood that drips into his mouth copper-flavor, staining the sky horror-movie red. He's in a building made of haphazard wood and steel. Red floor, red walls, red ceiling. It hangs around the interior like a poisonous cloud. The smell of the place is buoyant. Termite-eaten wood, layers of dust. The sulfur stench of rotting cadavers. This devil-maze, constructed so carelessly and arbitrary it mimics the frenzy of its occupants, filled to the brim with clutter and garbage and corpses. Pieces of it broken, hastily nailed to block off doors and make new little prisons all scattered around. The work of people deranged. It is an ugly, antagonistic labyrinth. It is a pit, and its occupants are stalking him.

Howling, drooling, chuffing, trampling on rickety boards like he wants to smash them; Blake crouches and watches the man up above. Whoever the _fuck's_ taken over this mill, they all exhibit the same insanity more blatant than anything he's seen in this shithole so far. They barely speak, they walk around unclothed, and they bay like rabid animals. For a moment, Blake wasn't even sure they were human. Some kind of cryptid, the kinda shit entrenched in culture. Mysterious entities that wander deep forests and wilderness, eluding human study and remaining a daunting unknown.

But they're human. They're human, because in the shards of light they stomp through, he's seen penises. Vulvas. Breasts.

They're human. And that's worse.

Blake spends several minutes observing the pattern of the heretic. He can barely see, but he can hear, and the nutjob seems too distracted with his own loud ramblings to hear Blake sneaking toward a cart. He can slide that cart over and use it to vault over a small opening in the nearby blocked door. When he sneaks to it, achingly delayed by having to pause every time the heretic storms frighteningly close above him, his palms grasp the cool metal like it's the holy grail. White-knuckled and gasping out a curse when the metal squeaks as it's pulled across the floor. Piece of shit. Piece of _shit_. Piece of shit little useless fucking cart, hasn't been used in probably years, rusting to hell and giving away his position. Blake slaps a hand over his mouth to hide any whimpers when he hears the tell-tale _thump_ of a heretic landing on the floor. Too late. They must have heightened senses, because there's movement. Silhouettes of heads turning to him and stepping forward.

One comes into the light as Blake is trying to push forward. He's built heavy, bigger than Blake. The twigs poking from his sack-mask are erratic, and the top is arranged like antlers. A big stag, coming at him with yellowed bone fashioned into a serrated knife. A smaller one is right behind, crawling on the floor like a creature. Lithe. A buck in comparison. Little sticks along his jawline and adorned with sludgy brown chunks around his head like a crown. _Is that his own shit... ?_

There is something cleaved into the skinny one's stomach. It's hard to see in the dark, hard to see with all the mud-clump hair erupting from the bottom of that dark patch, but when he stands and sways in the dusty light there's a jagged line with curled protrusions that makes Blake gasp. Someone's tried to rip this man in half. The opening rides up his midsection, with the edges twisted and puckered. Those are intestines hanging out. No symmetry of God, there. Blake wonders in a fleeting panic if they've got the same thing planned for him.

Blake holds his hands up and backs up into a wall. He's got nothing to fight them off and he's too much of a coward to throw a punch. He's paralyzed as the bigger one rasps at him: "Father walks among us-- Father fucks the womb-- Father spreads his grain and-- Fffaaaatthheerr--" 

"-- FUCKS ME! MINE! FERTILIZES ME!" The other one finishes in a grating yap, dirt-caked hands plunging into the open wound on his stomach and pulling it wider. He doesn't even flinch. Blake feels sick, watching it. The psycho must be high on something, some kind of substance, to still be standing. Mutilating himself like he's scratching an itch. That hand, greased with bile and other fluids, goes to grab for Blake's crotch and squeeze. Blake jolts to the side, only to run into the stag. He's held in place, the big one lifting his hand and holding the blade to Blake's throat as the other one spits, "B-better get risen, seeder, for my insides... !"

Blake can't get hard. There's no way in fuck he's getting erect like this. Neither seem to take notice, pressing their clammy bodies into his, front and back. He yelps when he feels the man's innards crush into him. Soft. Squishy. Both of them, he can feel, are definitely hard. The revulsion is overwhelming, and then there's fumbling hands. They're not going for his button or his zipper all nice and cautious. Blake's pants are yanked down just enough, so ferocious the fabric tears. Blake flails. He pleads for some kind of mercy. The heretics are shrieking again. Roaring like beasts and laughing up into the timber. Blake tries to hurl himself from between them, but they've both got vice-grips on his arms, and that primitive blade nearly slits his throat. He can't escape. Cold air seeping into his exposed skin.

The buck eases down onto the floor, then, scooting into a missionary position. Like someone trying to entice their lover after they've just gotten home. The stag shoves Blake down onto his knees and forward. Blake tries to avoid falling atop the second heretic, avoid landing on that viscera. Everything is happening too fast--

It's white-hot when he's penetrated. No build-up. No foreplay. Nothing to wetten the entry. He's being split, feels every little spark of sharp pain that burrows into that untouched ring of flesh, his asshole protesting every centimeter with force. When the first heretic buries himself balls-deep, Blake can feel crusted bristles at his tailbone. Pubes, made lumpy with layers of mud and sediment. And Blake is bawling. Everything, so abrupt and harsh at once, makes tears well in his eyes. His throat, scoured by his screaming. Snot, beginning to run. It's worse than being crucified. He'd take more nails to the palms to end this.

The stag shakes his head and flecks of saliva go flying each direction, slobbering under the twig-mask he's wearing. He sounds enraged, the way he bellows as he pushes that cock up inside of his catch, oblivious to the agony he's putting Blake through. Blake's body wrenches itself upward, downward, a desperate attempt to get away. Each movement drives his cock into the pile of guts. It's a marvel he doesn't spew his own all over the heretic, feeling intestines alive and twitching yet made cool by air exposure, warming as he's forcefully plunged inside of them.

"THREE HEADS-- WITH SEVEN HORNS-- THIRD FORK-- BIRTH-RIGHT--" 

The heretic below him is shouting in his face, twisting upward in a spasm in response to his wound being fucked. Blake snaps his eyes shut, teeth gritting hard enough to feel his jawbone click. He hisses out air and sucks it down just the same. With his eyes closed, there's flashes of deep red in the dark of his vision. Piercing jabs of it with each thrust from the deer-man, driving him further into the innards. This is happening. It's happening-- right-- now--

A song floats into his head. Absurd. Soft and light in contrast to what's being stabbed right up his ass. Like sandpaper wrapped around a knife. Barbed wire. He can feel a warm slickness that must be his blood starting to trickle from the rough and dry start.

_Jesus called them one by one  
Peter, Andrew, James and John._

The stag speaks something in tongues. Maybe it's real Latin or maybe it's mania-induced gibberish. He murmurs it like he's saying a prayer. And then he's yelling again. In Blake's ear he screeches, each word and non-word so vicious. So hateful. Blake trembles under it, wincing as if he's about to get beaten. 

_Next came Philip, Thomas too  
Matthew and Bartholomew._

They're fucking lunatics. All worshipping some false religion. The scrawlings of a child-killing madman, and then some nympho-megalomaniac on a rampage to the mines. The mines, where Lynn is.

_James the one they called the less  
Simon, also Thaddeus._

Lynn never fucked him this good. She never rode him with this level of fevered passion. Hell if he ever did the same. He's terrible in bed. It compounds when he feels how disappointed she is with him. When he gets on top of her and can't even make eye contact because there's something like contempt written on her face. At herself, for thinking she's doing something wrong? At him, for his anxiety? For his hang-ups? 

He feels the heretic punching him. First the one assaulting him, a blow to the back of the head that makes him dazed. The one below seems to stupidly follow suit, flinging his scrawny fists into Blake's chest. 

_The twelfth apostle Judas made  
Jesus was by him betrayed._

The stag slips something around his neck and pulls. It's tough and hard and Blake reaches up to feel it. Rope. Frayed and grimy under the touch. His fingers wrap around the fiber and pull in desperation. The heretic doesn't let up. It's not enough to cut off his oxygen, but it's threatened, and Blake squirms just as the stag grips his crude weapon, fingers flexing along the leather-bound hilt. Blake realizes why he's being leashed and restrained. Because that knife once held at his own throat-- it's slamming into the second heretic. Stabbing the slighter man, first in the chest at the meaty bit under the sternum, then down in a messy line. Down to the ruined bowels. The buck is bizarrely silent, only panting and wheezing each time the bone-knife punctures him.

_Yes, Jesus called them  
And they all followed him._

"No-- _no!_ " Blake's not crying for the heretic, is he? He's pleading for the other one to stop, because this is his limit. Having to feel the man's intestines under his limp dick and now having to experience his blood spurting up, hot and soaking into his clothes, that's the breaking point. The stag grabs Blake and flips him like he weighs nothing. Blake feels his spine press into the mass of guts. Feels the back of his coat get saturated just like the front as he's pressed into a man who's bleeding out. The stag is cackling. Barking ugly laughter as he stabs again and again, and the victim only moans in some sort of senseless ecstasy, throwing his body up and down with eagerness as the bone-blade goes in and out. Blake wails when he feels the big one enter him again and proceed to blow his load. Horrible jackhammer thrusts upward, rough and violent, in sync with the stabs. The stag is growling. Cum's shot up into him. Spilling from him. Fast, sloppy, thoughtless. If he didn't catch a disease from the scalled, he sure as fuck just contracted something now. 

Blake wrenches his neck up and stares through smeared lenses at the janky catwalk above them. There's fluttering shadows. Creaking floorboards. Another. Another heretic. They're like roaches coming from the walls. This one's female when she lands and rises up, with sagging breasts and curves and splotches of darkness around her thighs. She's--

"Val... Val... sittin' in the nest..." Husked in a snarl at him, she downright saunters when she approaches, hips swaying revoltingly slow, erotic. Her skinny hands go up and grab at the horns she's fashioned for herself. Smaller, thornier, curved like a ram's. Baphomet. The doe comes close and squats over him, pushing out a menstrual wad. Right on his face. It's so unexpected that Blake simply freezes.

Blake can't even scream. He groans, low, pitching forward as he thinks he's going to vomit. But there's nothing in his stomach. He shudders instead, and the hot splatter slides down his cheek like a fluid, gelatin slug. The heretic is screaming nonsense incantations above him, joined in unison beast-howls from her two brethren. "DIED FOR YOU! DIED FOR YOUUU--" Guts-Torn-Out is sounding weaker now, like his affliction is finally catching up with him. He's dying, but that's not what he means. Dimly, Blake realizes he's screeching about the discharge.

His hand goes up to wipe it away but more comes, plopping into his mouth. Chunky, viscous, tasting like overpowering warm copper. Blake spits it out and watches the rest of it dangle in a string from her cunt, the heretic digging silty fingers into herself and scooping out more. She lets it thread between digits as she drips it over Blake's neck, his chest, his body. And seeing him struggle, she crouches and jams what she can of her fist right into his mouth. When Blake tries to bite, she places a bare foot on his neck and leans. Pressure. He can't fucking breathe. When he chokes, he watches her free hand start to rub herself. She's giggling, raking at her pussy, and even if he can't see the grin through her mask he can hear it when she paints her blood up onto her belly. "All for you..."

With a sudden pop, the stag pulls out of him, and Blake feels semen leaking from his hole. Whatever small relief he might have felt from that atrocious pressure being released from inside of him is swallowed up by the disgust, the loathing, the fear.

"Eat them by their blood. Eat them by their blood. Eatthembytheirblood--" Frantic grunting from the doe as Blake feels his vision getting hazy. The third heretic is shrieking something at the first, and in blurring vision Blake watches them stand and begin to fuck. Right there. The male bending the female over a table, rutting into her with more of that agitated snorting as she seethes under him. It is appalling and he's too weak to move. 

The sacrificed heretic has stopped breathing under him. He slumps into the body. There's a gracious minute or so where he's allowed to lie there and rest and maybe fucking die, before the two heretics are apparently finished. The brutish huffing stops. Blake whines in protest, feeling the stag slip hands under his armpits and begin to lift him. The doe helps. They are dragging him. Blake thrashes, weak, his breath feeling liquid as he's able to take it in again. Not enough. The two of them give no warning before they bash his head into a wall, and he feels himself being dumped into a cart. Red-blackness clots his vision, the stench of spilled blood heady in his nose. It staves off his coma, like a smelling salt, long enough for him to feel his body being wheeled away as the two heretics mutter, perhaps to each other or perhaps to him:

"Pendulum's swinging... while the roots get gray..."  
"The nightcrawlers coming up... slurping seeds... and blood... and sex..."  
"Little one. Young sire. He's gotta go down... dowwwnnn deeeeep..."  
"... Herald be met... mother and father be fucked... babe be bred... "  
"... Fiend be born... !"

That's it, isn't it? The Anti-Christ. The hot commodity in this hell. He's a catalyst in it, somehow, Blake thinks vacantly as he's hauled off. There's something like caring in him. Terror for the fate of his precious, precious wife. But at the moment, all he really feels is hopeless. He's just been raped. He's just watched a murder. Feels like he's participated in it, too. And as his thoughts blink away, like a tired old bulb giving its last flickers, Blake's mind grasps a piece of the suffering each resident of this cult he's decided to investigate has endured.

In the slow seconds before he passes out, Blake feels a sinkhole drill into the depths of his abdomen. Misery. Anguish. A lead ball that rolls around inside of him, acutely conscious of the despair he feels. The despair that falls on the canyons like smog. He thinks, _I don't deserve this. Nobody here deserves any of this._ It's not fair. It's cruel, depraved, and heinous. It's a crime against God and it's a crime against humanity. But there's nothing he can do about it.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. 

Nothing at all.


End file.
